This story isn't science fiction at all, and it only has one element of fantasy, but I think this is the most suitable category available, so here it is. It is set in the real world, with real people and one simple and impossible (in the real world) premise. It's sort of a 'What if?' story combined with an impossible dream. Enjoy - BB1212
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They say you should start a story at the start, and I guess it all really began when I died. Now I know that sounds weird, because obviously I am not dead now, but I was back then. I was dead for eight minutes and twenty five seconds according to Snotty Grist, and not only was he there, but he was also very much the sort of person who would be busy looking at his watch and timing it while everyone else was trying to resuscitate a person who had drowned.
We were on our schoolies trip, the traditional drunken celebration that marks the end of high school, and six of us had travelled up from our dreary Melbourne homes to play in the sun at Surfer's Paradise on the Gold Coast in Queensland. I was trying to impress Theresa, and after far too many beers I decided that I would try to body surf. I got dumped, and I vaguely remember my face being pushed into the sand at the bottom of the sea.
People have often asked me what I saw when I died, and that is a really tricky question. The true answer is I didn't see anything. Also I didn't hear anything and I didn't physically feel anything. I was entirely disembodied, but not like I didn't have a body any more, more like I never had one. I experienced a most pure form of serenity which was way beyond anything I can describe, and I had an amazing sensation of awareness. I had no normal senses; there were no lights, colours, smells or sounds, just a constant state of total bliss. Then I had knowledge in my consciousness, something wanted to know what would be my greatest wish if I were still alive. I didn't have to think at all, there was just awareness of my answer. My greatest wish would be for me to be able to cure cancer.
Yes, I know. What a nerd answer. But that is what I was like back then, and not a lot has changed since. I was definitely a product of my environment. Like most of my generation, both of my parents were working long hours, and they were very tired when they came home. As a result of that they had very little time or energy to devote to me, their only child. So instead of learning and adopting their upper middle class liberal values I was instead deeply influenced by the radical left wing messages that my arts teacher, Peter Boskin, had enthusiastically pushed onto the slightly lost young and malleable next generation he was teaching at every possible opportunity. He showed interest in us when our parents didn't, he made us feel like our opinions were important and he gave us all the attention that we craved. Much to my parents' helpless horror, at that stage of my life I was pretty much an idealistic environmental activist. I cared about causes and people and I despised capitalists. Like my parents. But out of everything I had heard of in my eighteen years, I knew that cancer was the worst thing in the world, so cancer was what I wanted to get rid of.
Then I knew I was going back, and that I was being given a very rare second chance at life.
My first physical feeling on my return was agony. As it turns out it is not uncommon for a person providing CPR to break the patient's ribs, and this is considered a fair trade-off for a chance to continue living. But I can tell you it sure is painful at the time. Then add to that the next action of bringing up what feels like at least four lungful's of seawater with a heaving, shattered chest and I was really missing the serenity that I had just left.
Ever since that day I have not been afraid of dying, in a way I look forward to it, but really now I just want to avoid dying painfully if I can.
I was taken in an ambulance to a hospital where I was thoroughly examined, both physically and mentally. The psyche tests were relentless, and over and over I was asked questions like 'What are your parent's names?', 'Where do you live?', and 'Who is the Prime Minister of Australia?' At that time I would have had to answer the last one with 'that depends on what week it is, doesn't it?' We had had four Prime Ministers in less than three years, so it wasn't the most stable reference to make at the time. Eventually they decided that I had not suffered any brain damage or other ill effects. Apart from my painful broken ribs the only thing I noticed was some weird red dots that sometimes appeared when I looked at people. I didn't say anything about them because I thought that was just a part of what I had been through, and I didn't want to give the doctors another reason to prod and probe. I just wanted out.
So anyway, eventually my mother grudgingly sacrificed some of her precious time to come up and discharge me from the hospital. Then we endured the long and uncomfortable train ride south, because the doctors said I shouldn't fly with broken ribs. So all the way home I got to listen to lectures on how disappointed in me my parents were, and how I had upset their lives. Apparently it was my fault that I died... well OK, I was drunk, but I wasn't trying to drown, I was just trying to get to first base with a pretty girl.
I recovered quite quickly, but that was no surprise given my youth and my state of health at the time. The only enduring results of my misadventure were that I had some sort of cult status among my peers as the kid who had died, and I still kept seeing the red spots on some people. I endured the first and ignored the second; not wanting to have any further tests or scans. I had seen enough doctors and hospitals to last me a lifetime.
My parents were very happy when I was accepted by one of the most prestigious universities in the state, but their pride turned into horror when they found out I would be doing a Batchelor of Arts degree, something they deemed to be 'useless in the real world'. My intention was to go on to Master of Social Policy, but I thought I would break that horrific news to them later. Anyway, I immediately deferred my studies for twelve months, and chose to take a gap year in which I would be following my heart and joining protests and demonstrations wherever I could, because I wanted to make the world a better place.
After a while my notoriety faded, mostly because I really didn't want to talk about it anymore and my new purpose in life took me away from the people who had known me back then. So I just became another militant activist, in amongst many other militant activists.
I was happy, because I was doing my bit, and eventually even I stopped thinking about my brush with death. That was ancient history.
I had been in the forest in Tasmania for three months protesting against the logging and destruction of a vast expanse of virgin forest. Three times I had been arrested and locked up for a short time, but now I was looking down the barrel of a much longer sentence if I was arrested again, so I decided it was time to get out and look for another way to support the cause that didn't threaten me with major jail time. Getting home and having a hot shower and a warm bed were also fantastic bonuses, but facing my parents with my long unkempt hair and straggly beard was not a bonus at all. I did have a shave and a haircut, not because of their pressure, but because I couldn't grow a real beard at the time and my hair curled ridiculously as it grew and I hated how it made me look. It was also pleasant to have my folks off my back for a couple of days.
A week or so after I got back home I had a surprise visitor. The doorbell rang and I opened it to see Theresa. I hadn't seen her since just after our schoolies trip, and that had been a very awkward visit because she felt responsible for what had happened to me. But this was a different girl, and a much more subdued one.
"Hi," I said, and she looked at me nervously. For a moment I thought she was going to turn and run away.
"Uh... hi," she said with a wan smile.
"You want to come in?" I asked, "My folks are at work." She looked nervous.
"I don't bite," I assured her, and I got another faint smile.
"Yeah, sure," she said, and she followed me into the lounge.
I organised a coffee for her and a juice for me, I never used to drink coffee during the day back then. Then we sat down and I waited. I knew there was something that she wanted to say, but she was trying to work up to it. We drank in silence and I threw her a couple of what I hoped were reassuring smiles. Finally she took a deep breath.
"Um..., Edgar," she said, "I um... I've got cancer."
For a moment I just stared at her in shock. She was only eighteen, how could she have cancer? Cancer was what old people got. What a bastard hand she had been dealt. Then I saw the tears welling in her eyes, and I snapped out of it. Theresa needed sympathy, not pity. I got up, walked over to the couch, sat next to her and hugged her. She tensed for a moment and then collapsed into my arms. I could feel her sobbing as I held her tight.
"It's just not fair," she finally said, "I'm too young for this. I've only just started uni, I've never travelled and I've never even had a real boyfriend." I held her, I stroked her hair, and I let her let it all out. "I wanted to get with you at schoolies before your... accident," she sobbed, "and then that happened."
"I really wanted to be with you too," I said quietly.
"Can you hold me for a while?" she whimpered, and I squeezed her tight.
"I'd love to."
She stayed for an hour that day, and she came back the next day, and then every day she would turn up. I let Theresa do the talking and I didn't put any pressure on her to talk about it. She didn't say much at first, but we cuddled a lot and I think she was able to handle her situation better with my support.
